Frame 232 (21 page)

He took it from his pocket and looked at the caller ID. “It’s Noah,” he said, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Noah said with a touch of accusation.

“Huh?”

“Turn on CNN.”

Hammond was already moving. “What am I looking for?”

“Just turn it on. Hurry.”

“Okay.” He took the remote from the nightstand and aimed it at the set.

“What is it?” Sheila asked.

Hammond answered by holding up a finger
 
—
Hang on a sec.

There was a simple four-color map of the Ellis County area on the screen, with Burdick’s hometown of Palmer in large letters over a red dot. Along the bottom, the headline read, “Billionaire Wanted in Connection with Murder.” Hammond’s face was in a small box in the upper right-hand corner. It was a formal portrait he had given to the media a
few years earlier to stop them from trying to take pictures while he was at his estate.

“Are you seeing it?” Noah asked.

“Yeah, but there’s no sound. Hold on. . . .” He aimed the remote again, and the volume bar appeared over the CNN headline.

“. . . preliminary report we’re getting now,” said the invisible female newsreader, “is that Jason Hammond is wanted for questioning in the shooting death of Dr. Benjamin Burdick. Hammond is well-known as the billionaire sleuth who most recently helped solve the disappearance of Amelia Earhart. Burdick, forty-eight, was a professor of American history at Southern Methodist University before taking extended leave three years ago for personal reasons. It is believed he and Hammond had a casual acquaintance through their mutual interest in the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. Local police have refused further comment. However, a source has told CNN that an anonymous caller who contacted authorities claimed to have seen Hammond and another individual, an as-yet-unidentified woman, leave the property, and that investigators have discovered evidence linking Hammond to the murder site. We will continue to follow this story as it develops.”

The map of Ellis County disappeared, replaced briefly by an animated CNN logo before heading into a commercial.

Sheila stared at Hammond, her eyes wide. Hammond hit the Mute button and tossed the remote onto the bed.

“So there it is,” Noah said. “A minor crisis to say the least. I’ve got the phone ringing off the hook here, so could you kindly clue me in on what happened?”

Hammond put the phone on speaker and, with Sheila’s help, told him everything.

Noah took the time to repeat Sheila’s condemnation that Ben Burdick might still be alive if not for Hammond’s myopic determination.

Hammond absorbed this scolding without a word. Then he said, “The shooter had to be the one who called in the tip.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because Ben lived in almost-total seclusion, so it’s highly unlikely anyone else would have seen us. Also, we called in a tip too.”

“You
what
?”

“I didn’t want to leave Ben’s body lying there. It could’ve been there for days.”

“It was still a big risk.”

“I know, but what if an animal got to him? Ben deserved better, so I went to a pay phone. But according to CNN, the caller saw us fleeing the scene. Obviously we didn’t say anything about that.”

“Well, you’re in an impossible position now. If you go to the police, that’s the end of your investigation. They won’t release either of you for a while, and when they do, your lunatic friend will most certainly be waiting close by. And if you don’t go to the police, you’ll have them searching for you day and night.”

“Yeah, this is a tight spot.”

“Which is exactly what this guy wanted, I’m sure. He’s trying to smoke you out, make you show yourself. These are smart people you’re dealing with, Jason. Very smart.”

“I agree.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Hammond looked at the television again. The story now was about another series of floods along the Gulf Coast. “I’m going to turn the tables on them,” he said.

“Really? How do you plan to do that?”

“Simple
 
—I’m going to tell David Weldon everything.”

“You’re going to
what
?”

“Just trust me. Let me get back to you in a few minutes.”

He ended the call before Noah had the chance to protest and tapped in another number.

Weldon answered on the first ring.

THE MAN
known as Salvador always thought of his mother first. Her pretty, smiling face, with red lipstick and elegantly drawn eyebrows, and her satin-black hair tied back with a ribbon.

In this cherished memory, she was wearing an apron and leaning over him with a birthday cake. His father stood behind her, wearing those small round glasses he loved, and kept his own hands stored in the pockets of his slacks.

Even as a child, Galeno Clemente had known his family lived well, better than most in Cuba. They had a beautiful home, a new car, a dog. They always had nice clothes and ate in the best restaurants. His parents appeared to be well liked and respected by everyone, which gave him a warm feeling. Other adults would come to the house to speak with his father because Arturo Clemente was known as a wise man. They would seek his advice on business matters and seemed honored to partake of his wisdom.

The Clementes went to church every Sunday, and the priest adopted a subordinate air when they met after services. His parents were devout, so Galeno’s religious education
extended well beyond the church walls. Icons hung throughout their home, and a luxurious Bible lay open on a stand in the living room. His parents prayed each night, and Galeno and his brother, Olivero, were expected to kneel with them. A rosary was always woven between his mother’s fingers. They thanked God for each other and for their plentiful bounty. Then Mother and Father would take their two sons to their rooms and tuck them in.

And they would be read to, the parents alternating between the two boys so neither would seem favored over the other. And when the stories ended, their hair would be stroked and their cheeks kissed. Neither could imagine a greater love in the universe. Their father would speak of wondrous days to come, of days spent hard at work in a place called “university” and of taking over his businesses together, as brothers, to continue amassing the family riches. The present was glory and the future unlimited, and the burden of worry was an unknown quantity.

Neither boy took much notice of Fulgencio Batista’s rise to power at first. It was the early fifties, and they were too young to be concerned with such matters. They heard his name spoken among the adults, and they got the impression he was not well regarded. Their father once called him a “feckless punk.” Nevertheless, their prosperity continued. A second car appeared in the driveway, making their mother one of the only women in the community who had her own. She was given a small safe for her best jewelry. There was also talk of buying land purely for investment purposes, maybe leasing it to tenant farmers.

And then, with the swiftness of an ax blade, it all changed. Even now, Clemente could remember the date
 
—August 11, 1956.

It began with a knock on the front door. The boys were in their rooms, changing to play baseball in an empty lot down the street. It was a Saturday afternoon, and their mother was baking a cake for dinner that evening. She wiped her hands on her apron before answering.

The brothers, thinking it was their friends growing impatient, ran down the steps to greet them. Instead they found two bullish-looking men in dark suits. They had the hard faces of street brawlers, but the suits were tailor-made. They also wore gold rings and watches. They were both gangsters; Galeno was a smart kid and could see through the slick packaging. You could put them in suits, but it changed nothing.

The men seemed to have little interest in his mother. She was frightened, Galeno could tell, and this angered him. He watched the men carefully, promising himself he would act if necessary. He was still small and was no match for either of them, but the thought of his mother being harmed made his blood boil. She retreated to her bedroom, and her husband came out bleary-eyed and shoeless; he had been resting.

When the men asked him to come outside to speak, he seemed hesitant. But he went, closing the front door quietly. Galeno and Olivero understood that he did this so they would not hear the conversation. There was something sinister about all of it, and they knew real fear for the first time in their lives. They were genuinely unsure if their father would come back.

When he did, he looked dazed.

By collecting small bits of conversation between their parents over the next few days, the brothers pieced together a general sense of what was happening: new businesses called “casinos” were being opened on the orders of President Batista. These new casinos, they heard, were to be stocked with the finest foods and liquor Cuba had to offer, for they would
attract visitors from all over the world, especially America. Galeno knew America was the richest country in the world, but this idea of catering to their tourists made him feel dirty, as if they were royalty and the Cuban people were merely their servants. His father produced some of the best wines, sherries, and rums on the island. He had labored for years to formulate his blends. Now Batista was demanding that he increase his output in order to please these foreign customers. And he wanted the supply at a cut-rate price. Other distributors had made similar demands of Arturo in the past, and Galeno remembered his father always politely refusing. He had never compromised where his product was concerned. But this time he was being given no choice in the matter.

As time passed, other Batista agents came to the home, always unannounced, always with a new twist on the deal. More product, lower prices, a free delivery here and there, privately labeled bottles for friends of the president, and then, inevitably, the demand for exclusivity. The life Galeno and Olivero had known slipped away in stages. The second car disappeared, then the jewelry in their mother’s safe. Restaurant visits became less frequent; clothes were handed down.

Once the luxuries were gone, the essentials began to diminish. Their father worked longer hours, and he sometimes wasn’t home when they went to bed. His parents fought from time to time, something they had never done before. Young Galeno found his mother crying a few times, and he vowed to find the cause of her grief and destroy it.

Then came the night of June 10, 1958.

“Ou vle yon lòt?”
the shirtless bartender asked in his native Creole.
Do you want another?

This pulled Clemente out of his reverie and back to the present. He looked at the man, who was as thin as a whip and as dark as coal.
“Wi, tanpri.”
Yes, please.

The bartender nodded and whisked away the empty glass. The ramshackle hut in which Clemente sat passed for a drinking establishment in this forgotten corner of the world. The beer was usually warm, the roof leaked when it rained, and the air reeked of rotting vegetation from a nearby compost pile. But there was also running water, cable television, and even an ancient computer with Internet access. Getting here might have required a two-mile walk from the encampment, but it was the way Clemente kept in touch with the rest of the planet.

The bartender, whose name was Seydou, set down the second rum and waited. Clemente removed a bill from his pocket and handed it over. Seydou nodded reverently and withdrew.

Alone now in the gathering afternoon heat, Clemente turned his attention back to the television: a tiny CRT on a platform that hung from the corrugated ceiling. CNN was running through a sports segment; celebrity news would be next.

Father Breimayer had a hundred questions for him, he knew. The priest was a good and decent man, one of the most admirable Clemente had ever met. Breimayer had been through his own share of hardship, Clemente had learned. He had seen things that would have devastated the spirits of other men. But he was a follower of the Lord, and the Lord had delivered him. Breimayer drew his strength from his faith, the kind of faith Clemente had known at one time, a time so far back that it seemed a part of someone else’s life rather than his own.

And what of forgiveness?
That, too, had been promised in the Holy Book, taught to him by his parents. The Lord understood the frailties of the human condition, accepted the errors and misjudgments of his brood. Through his divine mercy, he released them from the crushing burden of their sins. And in his Kingdom, when their time in the prison of mortality drew to a close, they would be welcomed with open arms.

Clemente had wondered endlessly about this over the years. What would be his final judgment when he stood before the Lord and the ledger of his life was opened? Even with God’s capacity for compassion, was time now the only barrier between himself and eternal damnation? How could anyone forgive such sins? How was one spared such suffering? Would genuine remorse coupled with decades of good works be sufficient? Clemente had come to suspect it would not. For any hope of reconciliation, he felt he had to make some effort to balance the specific injustice of his transgressions. Even if he failed, maybe the sincerity of the effort would be sufficient. Was that the policy? Was that what God was waiting for? The search for this answer had been his obsession.
Please, Lord, present me with the opportunity to redeem myself.

When CNN returned to the story on billionaire Jason Hammond, Clemente thought perhaps that opportunity had arrived. The mention of the American city of Dallas sent a familiar charge through every bone. The mention of the dead president sent another. But it was the face of the woman that gripped his heart with an icy hand. He had never forgotten it. She was the daughter, yes, but her eyes were so like her mother’s.

He knew Margaret Baker’s lens had found him that afternoon, in spite of his meticulous precautions. Now a strange
feeling filled him
 
—a mixture of great relief, sadness, and a dozen other emotions that had been hibernating in some cavernous corner of his soul.

And something else came to the surface then, as certain as anything he had ever known.

The time had come to leave this place.